


I Just Want to Mean Something to You

by queenklu



Series: People Around You Smiling Out Loud [3]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan) RPF, Inception (2010) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:17:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenklu/pseuds/queenklu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Tom wishes with a visceral ache that they were alone, that Joe could just take his hand and make him feel a little more human.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Just Want to Mean Something to You

**Author's Note:**

> Short threequel to [People Around You Smiling Out Loud](http://archiveofourown.org/works/209627) and [Clucking Open Hearts and Ears](http://archiveofourown.org/works/275278), but could be read on its own just fine. Set during the filming of Dark Knight Rises but no spoilers for the movie. Mooooooooostly porn.

Joe is looking at him strangely from across the set, eyes narrowed and mouth quirked in wry amusement, arms folded across his broadened chest. Not as broad as Tom’s, of course, but then there are mountains with less breadth than Tom at the moment.  
  
“That’s not true,” Joe says when Tom grumbles his observations to him after they’re done filming—through the goddamn bloody fucking arsehole shite of a mask, which is what Tom has taken to calling it in polite company. He can’t hear all that well, it’s difficult to breathe, and it muddles his words to near incomprehension. When the movie is finished Tom dearly hopes to steal one from props, cut it into tiny pieces, and burn it.  
  
“Small mountains. Of the Himalayan variety.” Tom has no idea what he’s saying, he’s so tired. All he wants is to fall into Joe’s trailer, wrap around him like a mollusk and never move again.  
  
Joe knocks his elbow companionably against Tom’s meaty hay bale of an arm, and Tom wishes with a visceral ache that they were alone, that Joe could just take his hand and make him feel a little more human, less like a monster.  
  
“Come on,” Joe says, “Let’s get you into makeup and free of that thing.”  
  
It seems only fitting the mood he’s in that Heather and Samuel are both swamped with getting the militia men suitably grungy looking. “Sorry, sorry,” Heather says, frazzled and wild-eyed as she shoves a bottle of makeup remover into his hands. “Can you please—you know how to take off, yes? Do not lose.”  
  
“Of course.” Tom tries to smile reassuringly before he remembers that no one can see him smile, not even a little bit. He gives her a halfhearted thumbs-up instead.  
  
“I’ll help him with it,” Joe promises, his smile bright and friendly, as usual. Tom lets Joe drag him to his own trailer, up the stairs, lets himself be pushed into a sitting position on the bench-like couch along one wall, lets himself pretend Joe could physically shove Tom around if he wanted.  
  
“I miss being Eames-sized,” Tom mutters, probably to himself.  
  
Joe smirks anyway. His eyes are dark, Tom notices with surprise, dark with affection and something approaching eagerness.  
  
“Hold still.”  
  
He tips Tom’s head up, damp cloth brushing the edges of the mask, following the curves of Tom’s bare skin. Tom closes his eyes and enjoys the feel of Joe’s attention, the deft, efficient swipes and the slower, lingering touches as Joe’s fingertips slip past the cloth. Joe washes down his throat, over his collarbones where the edges of his tattoos showed above his tank top collar, scrubbing until his skin is pink and inked again—and the back of his neck, peeling away the prosthetic scar along his spine.  
  
“Ready?” Joe asks when the cloth is gone, fingers pushing just under the rubber of Bane’s chin strap. Tom nods, feeling even more breathless than he usually does in the fucking thing.  
  
And then it’s pulled away from his mouth; Tom bows his head as Joe peels it from his skull, sighs as moist skin meets fresh air, finally. He keeps his eyes closed, shakes himself a little to get the blood flow going, reaches up to rub at his ears and meets Joe’s hands on the way. Joe traces the aching shell of his ears, thumbs stroking the corner of Tom’s eyes until he opens them again and meet’s Joe’s gaze.  
  
“Hi,” Joe says, grinning sweet and soft. “There you are.”  
  
Tom hugs him around the middle, careful not to squeeze too hard even as Joe laughs and twists around to kiss the top of Tom’s head, follows it down the bridge of Tom’s nose to his smiling mouth where he whispers, “I missed you,” and kisses him.  
  
“I’m right here,” Tom says, feeling something pang uncomfortably in the drum of his chest.  
  
“I missed your face.” Joe settles on Tom’s lap with an eyebrow raised, his thumb tracing the furred line of Tom’s scarred one. “Call me shallow, it’s still good to see all of you.”  
  
“I knew it,” Tom sighs, trying to shake the unsettled feeling. “You only love me for my boyish good looks.” Part of him—his lizard brain—likes the way his arms look looped around Joe’s waist, the way his legs are so huge they splay Joe’s wide. But it’s…it’s difficult to reconcile this with the bit of his brain that feels ungainly and heavy all of his waking moments. Some grating voice says he should either enjoy it or not, with no space in between.  
  
Joe has that look on his face again, too perceptive by far. “Well, that and your exceptional ass.” His voice is very reasonable, but his ears are pink and getting pinker. “Are you going to let me fuck it?”  
  
Tom inhales too quick and chokes. Usually Joe needs to warm up to dirty talking, this is zero to filthy so fast Tom’s head is spinning.  
  
“I—“ It’s been months since he’s bottomed, and he can’t remember a single bloody reason why that is, why they haven’t, why he wouldn’t even think of Joe inside him the way he is now, no reasons that aren’t insecure bollocks. “ _Yes_ , I, darling, of course—“  
  
His thick fingers fumble at Joe’s hitRecord shirt for a brief moment before Joe grabs them, squeezes until Tom lets his hands go limp. “Let me,” Joe says, half a question, and Tom nods.  
  
Joe stands and gets out of his shirt in one lithe movement, even as his flush spreads from his ears to the hollow of his collarbones, down his chest. Then he’s tugging Tom to his feet, and it’s easier to remember that Joe is taller than him like this, easier to see the bulk he’s put on for his own role, muscle rounding his shoulders, giving him a breadth that Arthur hadn’t needed, but Blake does. His ribs are wider, his pecs are firm and well-defined—Tom wants to cup them like he did last night, suckle on the nubs until they go hard with desperation.  
  
“Eyes up here,” Joe teases, leaning in to tilt Tom’s chin up and kiss him. He can’t possibly miss the shiver that runs through Tom, not with one hand against Tom’s throat and the other curved around his side under his shirt. But he only hesitates a second, and then Bane’s coat is shoved off Tom’s shoulders, collapsing on the floor.  
  
He keeps as still as he can while Joe takes his wrists and holds them over his head, fist bunching in the fabric of his tank as he drags it up Tom’s body with his free hand, pulls it off. It’s all instinct for Tom to keep his arms stretched up when Joe lets go, curled knuckles brushing the ceiling. Joe’s eyes go hot and his fingers yank hard at the flat leather of his belt, and yes, yeah, that was a good call, Joe so close he has to tip his head down that fraction of an inch, breath warm and quick against Tom’s mouth.  
  
Tom licks his lips, says, “Please.”  
  
His reward is a low, pleased noise in the back of Joe’s throat, and a sinuous roll of Joe’s body against his. And god, skin on skin is already helping remind him how human he is, and still stripping him of higher brain function. He leans toward Joe as far as he can with all this muscle, without letting his knuckles leave the ceiling. He can’t help the uncontrolled fuck of his hips, the need to get his dick _inside_ something.  
  
Joe takes a step back—of course he does, who wants to get humped like an animal?—and Tom bites back a noise, sinks his teeth into the certainty that he is stronger than Joe and locks his jaw.  
  
Impossibly, he seems to understand that Tom needs a moment, and when he blinks back into himself Joe is there, calm and steady. “Hey,” he says, and he fits his hand to the side of Tom’s neck, thumb moving soothingly against his pulse. “You know I’ll get you there, don’t you?”  
  
Tom does, yes, of course he does, but maybe some small part of him still needed to hear it. He nods, just to feel Joe’s skin shift against his, says, “Yes,” to feel it vibrate in Joe’s palm.  
  
“Okay.” He gets a glimpse of Joe’s dimple and then Joe’s mouth is on his, sweet and easy, taking his time. Tom can’t tell if his arms are getting tired or just straining to wrap around Joe and pull him close.  
  
Joe catches Tom’s bottom lip in his teeth when he pulls away, and the bastard looks so _pleased_ —with himself, maybe, maybe with Tom?—that Tom makes a helpless little moan. “Bed,” Joe says, shakes his head at himself, “Strip first, then bed.”  
  
Tom’s arms prickle as circulation returns, but he doesn’t let it get in the way of nearly breaking his neck trying to kick his shoes off with his cargos tangled around his ankles. He falls on the bed with all the grace of a tranquilized water buffalo.  
  
Looking at his limbs has reminded him how bloody huge he is, and an unhappy thought falls out of his mouth: “You won’t be able to fuck me on my back.” He won’t, he can’t bend that way, his flexibility is shot.  
  
Joe is at the edge of the bed in an instant, fly undone and jeans slung so low on his hips as he catches Tom’s gaze and holds it. “I _want_ you on your hands and knees.”  
  
It, it’s meant to be reassuring, because Joe touches his nape and asks, “Okay?” after, and it does settle something in Tom even if it also makes him feel like he’s on the edge of spontaneously combusting into a mess of muscles and ashes. He has to strangle back a noise—terrified to find out what kind—and moves where Joe wants him, cock heavy and hard between his legs, sticky head kissing up against his stomach as he moves.  
  
“God, look at you.” Joe fetches the lube from where they kicked it under the bed and clambers onto the mattress between Tom’s legs, always keeping in contact, gripping once he’s settled. “Gonna go slow,” he says, both hands on him now, lube dropped between his knees as his breath comes quicker. “Promise—“  
  
And then he cuts off, because his tongue has better things to do, has to lick Tom from balls to the small of his back, and Tom cries out, bucks back into the feeling. It’s been ages since Joe’s done this, and Tom’s all-but forgotten the way Joe is so effortlessly _good_ at it, the little sounds he makes as he works at tongue-fucking him open, spit rolling down into the wiry fuzz around Tom’s balls. Joe doesn’t let up when his hand slides up Tom’s hip, fingers digging in where the _T_ of his _Til I Die_ tattoo begins—knows the map of Tom’s body so well he finds it blind.  
  
The noise that rips free when Joe adds a slicked finger along his tongue is barely human, and Tom nearly falls when he tries to reach for his cock and can’t make his arms work, not without collapsing on his face.  
  
“I’ve got you,” Joe whispers against his flank and slides another finger inside. “There you go.”  
  
It’s work getting the third finger in, even though Joe takes his time scissoring, using plenty of lube. Tom can’t figure out how to make his body unclench until Joe nips him lightly on the thigh, and then it’s…it’s instinct, to pull tighter and let go, and the burn of Joe’s third melts Tom’s spine like butter, brings him to his elbows to push his ass up better, higher. Tom whines, but it’s the good kind, the lovely kind that Joe understands.  
  
“Fuck, Tom, _Tom_ ,” Joe gasps, nearly soundless. “I didn’t know—how much you wanted it, I would’ve—“  
  
“ _Now_.” It sounds like a snarl, or maybe a sob, but it gets Joe shoving his trousers down to his thighs— _fucking finally_ , a part of Tom wants to wail that he hasn’t yet seen Joe’s cock but another part of him is short-circuiting at the thought of Joe fucking him like this, belt buckle jangling around his knees. “ _Now, now, now now n—_ “  
  
Joe thumbs the head of his cock against the pucker of his arse and Tom chokes on his tongue; not quite inside yet but pushing at it, working at the clutch of resistance at his rim. Tom spreads his legs as wide as possible, gives Joe all the room he can, and Joe pushes in.  
  
Tom is—full, he’s full to the brim and blistering, Joe is him skin on skin and everywhere, _fucking hell_ , he can’t remember ever feeling this _full_ , tight to the seams of his lungs. He can’t move much but he tries, pushes his mouth against his arm to muffle the noise he’s making, god, it’s just a trailer, anyone could—Joe rolls his hips and Tom forgets everything but the exquisite feel of him, the shape of him locked in Tom’s body.  
  
“There, see, so good, easy,” Joe murmurs senseless words along his skin, nuzzling up between his shoulder blades before teething at the top of his spine.  His next careful thrust drags along Tom’s prostate like a brand, and Tom judders in a breath. “There?” Joe sounds like he’s smiling, but he moves again, exactly right. “That the spot?”  
  
It takes Tom long enough to find the word _Yes_ that Joe makes him turn his head, and Tom forgets all languages entirely at the sight of Joe’s face—flushed and grinning and _happy_ —and he can’t twist far enough to kiss him but _christ_ he wants to.  
  
Joe leans back but keeps his hands on Tom, stroking over his shoulders and ribs as he starts thrusting in earnest, nailing Tom’s prostate almost every time. He’s leaking steadily into Tom, he can feel the added slick, and Tom is leaking worse onto the bed, pleasure milked from him and nothing for him to rut against. He doesn’t even _mind_ , he knows, Joe said he’d get him there, he will, there’s no rush. He can take anything from Joe, be what Joe needs him to be, just—be _here_.  
  
When Joe’s hand slides down and closes around his cock he nearly whites out. Collapsing forward isn’t a choice, a muscle spasm that shoves his arse up and his face into the bedding—Joe curses wildly and falters a fraction, focusing on keeping his grip steady, fingers rolling over Tom’s slit and slipping further down to tug at his balls.  
  
“Fuck, you’re so hard,” Joe hisses, sounding—awed and pained and proud at once. “I don’t know how—God, Tom, you’re amazing, look at you—“ and then he’s letting go, he’s gripping Tom’s hips hard enough to bruise and stuttering in a handful of thrusts, and Tom can _feel_ him come, the hot splash of Joe’s come in him that makes Tom’s balls clench up, not enough to tip over the edge but so fucking close.  
  
Then Joe is easing him down onto the bed, kneading at his thighs until his legs learn how to unbend, rolling him over and soothing the desperate little hiccups Tom’s been making for god knows how long. “Got you,” he’s panting, “I’ve—“ and then he’s swallowing Tom to the root, three fingers sliding in like nothing and Tom is _done._  
  
He shakes apart and comes and comes and comes, and Joe swallows it all even though it tastes foul with all the protein Tom’s been force-fed, but Joe doesn’t look like he minds, eyes slitted with contentment as he licks Tom clean.  
  
“Joe,” Tom rasps, feeling strangled, “Joseph,” and reaches for him with needy, grasping fingers. Joe moves instantly up his body and into his arms, cradles him, kisses the crown of his head and traces the still-tender curve of his ear.  
  
“I’ve got you,” Joe promises, “I love you, remember?”  
  
And yes, he does, of course he does—Tom remembers the first time they blurted it out to each other over the phone, all over a hideous jumper—it’s just hard to _believe_ it, sometimes. That they both have room in their ridiculous lives for this kind of luck.  
  
“I do, Joseph, I love you,” Tom croaks out, throat straining with how far he’s tipped his head back to meet his eyes. “I love you so.”  
  
“I have no idea how you do what you do,” Joe whispers like a blanket-fort secret. “Such a chameleon.”  
  
“Have you even _watched_ your dailies,” Tom all-but wails. “Or your entire CV, bloody hell.” He nuzzles Joe’s collarbone and thinks idly of inking him, the way he does sometimes when he’s on the brink of sleep. “Mmm, the effort I put into stroking your ego.”  
  
“My ego is just fine,” Joe laughs, tucking Tom closer to his body—like this, Tom feels delightfully small and protected. “I just don’t think I could do what you’ve done for this role. It’s impressive.”  
  
Tom makes a small noise of dissent, because—this coming from the bloke who threw himself through endless days of a rotating, suspended hallway with only the barest wires to keep him from hurtling to his death? But language is slipping further and further away, and Joe is here, and Tom feels right all the way down to his bones. He has just enough effort for one last thing.  
  
When Tom slides a hand up and toys with that stray curl at the nape of his neck Joe grins, radiant and dimpled and perfect. “Hi,” he says, and Tom gives him a proper hello.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can be found [here on lj](http://queenklu.livejournal.com/409674.html) if you're interested!


End file.
